The Continuing Adventures of Gimpy McGee

Not long after the Vet Bill of Unspeakable Horrors — I believe our credit card was still hot to the touch — Ceiba starting limping. 

Limping isn't a zero to X-ray thing with her, as Min Pins tend to have trick kneecaps (luxating patellas, if you wanna be all science-y about it). Ceiba's knees haven't bothered her in years, at least not as frequently as when she was a puppy, but I still assumed that was the problem and her kneecap would pop back into place on its own, as usual. 

When it didn't, I stretched and massaged it, then puzzled a bit because her kneecap felt fine, at least to my inexpert fingers. Later I realized that all that stretching and massaging seemed to have made things worse, because her leg was now noticeably swollen and I was an asshole.

I told Jason it was probably time to go back to the vet — and while at first he protested with this wild, terrified look in his eyes, like oh god oh no not again with all of the money — he agreed and took her to the emergency vet for an examination and x-ray.

Good news: 'Tis merely a sprain. Try to get her to rest it for awhile. Here are some pain pills.

(And oh. That'll be $400.)

Ceiba, being the idiot pea brain that she is, did not rest it. Despite my PERFECTLY REASONED explanations that she needed to stay on her dog bed and let a human carry her up and down stairs, she continued to behave like a spastic moneky. She chased squirrels. She wigged out over the mail. She jumped on and off the couch. She fell down the stairs. She antagonized the cat who promptly laid her ass out flat. 

By my count, she has partially healed and then re-sprained that same damn leg a half-dozen times. The vet recommended upping the pill frequency to keep her doped and still. 

You guys, I think my dog is intentionally engaging in drug-seeking behaviors.

 

Or maybe just peanut-butter seeking. Three times a day, she gets a baby spoon's worth of peanut butter with the doggie equivalent of oxycontin ("doxy," I call it, because I am stupid and think this is an hilarious pun) hidden inside. Twice a day, she loses her ever-loving mind over this amazing treat with an enthusiasm previously reserved for waffles.

SPOON SPOON OH GOD IT'S A SPOON MAH LEG HURTS REAL BAD, YO

NOM 

OH NOM NOM

OH HOW I LOVE PEANUT BUTTER WITH A MEDICINAL BURNY CENTER

SEE YOU IN EIGHT HOURS, SPOON

(Seriously though: Dog. Calm the fuck down and stop hurting your damn leg. Everybody already feels sorry enough for your goofy hamster self without the pathetic limp. GO LIE DOWN.)

Things We Broke While On Vacation

1) The shower. Okay, first of all, you need to know something about our Ocean City vacations. We stay for free with Jason's great-aunt and great-uncle, who retired there. Who are very nice and gracious and welcoming, but also COMPLETELY KIND OF TERRIFYING. I mean, first, they're in-laws. Distant in-laws. That's baseline intimidating already. And all my in-laws have this quiet, measured, Germanic stoicism about them, which is the complete opposite of my family. We're a bunch of hand-talking Irish drunks with voice immodulation syndrome. 

Plus...well, they are very particular and set-in-their-ways and they keep their condo impeccably clean and organized, having mastered the "living in small quarters" thing to an enviable degree. 

And then we show up. And basically wreak havoc and disaster all over the damn place. Every year the amount of STUFF we have to lug there grows exponentially. Not surprising, given that every other year we seem to show up with a whole new family member in tow. More suitcases, more bags, more toddling towers of childproofing terror. Now with bonus lightsabering pool noodles!

They like children, at least. And they especially like babies a whole lot. But they don't particularly like said babies and children to touch anything. So then we have to move everything that our children might possibly touch, but then that sets off a chain reaction of Cluttered Surface Everything-Not-In-Its-Place Eyelid Twitches, so I start not moving things and instead spend our time inside chasing after children and prying remotes and coasters and decorative baskets out of their grubby fingers, panicking that they're still somehow tracking sand inside, spreading tea towels on upholstered chair surfaces and picking up stray Cheerios off the floor before anyone else sees them.

Basically, it's like bunking with the Imaginary Authority Figures. Only they are real and trying to assure you that "oh, it's fine, we understand" but YOU KNOW BETTER.  You know you are racking up Imaginary Bad Houseguest Citations LEFT AND RIGHT, girlfriend. 

So naturally, I'm the one who broke the brand-new shower head in the guest bathroom. In my defense, I was trying to hose two children off at the same time, while also being naked and slippery myself, and I didn't pull up on the detachable handle thingie-thing before pulling down, and then heard a sickening oh-now-you've-done-it crack as the plastic bracket that held the shower head snapped in two. 

I hid the evidence with a strategically-draped towel over the shower door for three days while we waited for the new shower head we ordered to arrive from Amazon. 

2) The chair. Not just any chair. Jason's great-aunt's favorite porch rocking chair, the one that has been there for as long as I can remember. We were sitting out on their balcony by ourselves when suddenly Jason yelled "HOLY SHIT!" and started flailing wildly backwards.

Being the quick thinker and devoted wife that I am, I instinctively grabbed the bottle of wine off the table in between us while Jason frantically tried to not like, crack his head open on the glass door behind him and die. 

Two bolts on the underside of the chair had up and cracked solidly in two. Jason tried to spin his confession in the best positive light, like "I'm just glad it happened to me and not <great aunt>."

That went over about as well as expected.

3) The window screen. After applying a little more wine to the situation, everyone quickly forgot about the chair (except me, because I was still trying to find the right moment to drop the shower head news on them and was starting to reach Telltale Heart levels of guilt). We were all enjoying a nice chat and people-watching session out on the balcony together. That's when a little Noah-shaped silhouette appeared in the living room behind us.

"We need to go home!" he whispered. "We need to go home right now!"

He was clearly terribly upset about something, and after some hushed questioning I got the bone-chilling answer: "I broke the window, Mommy."

I looked over and indeed: The screen had ripped from the frame and was merrily flapping away in the ocean breeze.

"Are you mad, Mommy?" Noah asked.

I actually wasn't so much "mad" as "wanting to grab a few loose belongings and drive off in the dead of night in abject mortification," but...well, I went with "mad" because it was easier. He'd been warned about leaning on the screen several times, especially since we were in a high-rise building, NOT TO MENTION all the times I've barked up at him from the backyard to stop mashing his face against the screen in his bedroom because if you rip that it will cost all the dollars in your piggy bank SO HELP ME.

At the same time, it was also mostly an accident. And he'd come out and promptly confessed. Instead of like, pitching the good silverware out at the parking lot 12 stories below. 

Still, though, I made him go back out and tell everybody else what happened, the heat of my secret shower-head hypocrisy burning through my cheeks as Noah dutifully apologized to his great-great uncle and I was like, "oh God, just add it to our tab."

4) The dog. Our pet sitter called on Tuesday to report that Ceiba was having bloody diarrhea all over the place, plus vomiting, plus not eating or drinking, so....yeah? Should probably take her to vet? Or something?

So from that point on, several times a day, we attempted long-distance pet crisis management over the phone, blindly approving charges for X-rays, blood tests, IV fluids, antibiotics, medical boarding and I don't even know what else, because every time I attempt to read the itemized bill I pass out:

The official diagnosis? Gastroenteritis, the catch-all name for Your Dog Probably Done Ate Something Stupid. Again.

We have no idea what she got into this time (the stress of being left with a pet sitter for the second time in a month probably didn't help anything, though) (LIKE OH SURE DOGS ARE TOTALLY ALSO WELCOME AT THE CONDO HA HA HA), but by yesterday she was fully recovered and ready to come home. We were planning to stay the full week, but you know what? Sometimes you just have to listen to the Vacation Gods and know when to pack it in. 

We packed it in and came home to pick Miss Thing up ourselves. She seemed very grateful.

EPILOGUE:

I confessed to the shower head crime before we left, hoping that the fact that we were packed up and leaving and (almost) guaranteed to NOT BREAK ANYTHING ELSE would soften the annoyance. The new one is being delivered today and our check for a replacement screen is in the mail too. I should probably send a fruit basket or gift card or case of wine or something too. 

MOST EXPENSIVE FREE VACATION EVER FTW.

Mullet-hat baby don't care. Mullet-hat baby didn't break a damn thing, and doesn't know what y'all's problem is. 

Tequila Mockingpets

This is the last post of the Sauza sponsorship, and I apologize for both the semi-awkward timing and for...well. You'll see.

In honor of the Sauza Fireman & Kitten Amazingness video, I ordered a twee little beret for my own animals. Oh, how funny that would be! They would look so dashing and jaunty! Like this!

ZOMG.

But alas, the beret, it was backordered. I was thwarted by upside-down supply/demand economics! A run on the kitty-beret market! Dump your orange juice futures and invest heavily in felt!

I SHOULD HAVE STOLEN THAT PINK ONE I KNEW IT.

So in desperation I went to the local big-box pet store in search of the Most Ridiculous Thing I Could Put On My Pets' Heads. 

I found it, all right. In the form of a doggie doo-rag and some Super Ironical pink skull-and-crossbone hair bows. These items may or may not have come from the "Bret Michaels Pets Rock" apparel collection, which is actually something that actually exists, God save us all.

Anyway! Maximum LOLCAT potential unlocked! Now all I had to do was put said Most Ridiculous Things on said pets' heads and the Internet laughs would flow like tequila. Right? Right.

NOT AMUSED. GOIN TO MURDER YOO IN UR SLEEP.

Our photo op was a bit more...challenging than the one I witnessed at the commercial shoot. 

NO.

NO HATE NO

hate everything goin poop on her bed then murder in sleep hate no

THIS IS NOT EVEN THE CORRECT WAY TO TIE A DOO-RAG! DID YOU LEARN NOTHING FROM "ROCK OF LOVE," WOMAN?

Seriously. Just don't look at her. Pretend she's not even there. It takes away her power. 

YOU CAN TIE IT PROPERLY ALL YOU WANT NOW, BUT TEH MOMENT HAZ PASSED. LEMME INSIDE FOR WAFFLES.

So it seems, much like tequila recipes, putting things on animals' heads is also best left to the professionals. My pets are clearly warped from their early days as child blog stars, back before the human babies took over around here. Uncooperative divas, I suppose. 

PS: Max is totally going to eat my eyeballs tonight, and I will have deserved it. 

PPS: DON'T CARE. WORTH IT. HAAAAAAA.

PPPS: I think we should declare June 7th a national holiday where we all drink tequila and put stupid things on our pets' heads. Who's in? I think it could rival Cinco de Mayo. Séptimo de Junio! Hats for all! Dignity for none!

PPPPS: Okay, I'm done now. Thanks for sponsoring these posts and for letting me be so weird, Sauza.

Masterfeces Theater Presents

Last night, while we were all enjoying a delicious dinner of grilled chicken chicken and ratatouille (well, except for Noah, who threatened to punch our house apart [WITH HIS FISTS!!!] if we ever made him eat such things again), I noticed a single, compact little turd had suddenly appeared on the floor next to the table. 

Now, the problem with having a cat and a very small dog is that it is literally impossible to tell their poop apart. And yes, this is a problem. One that we are very familiar with. Hey kids! Who wants to play another round of Who Pooped On The Floor? 

But since we were eating, I opted not to really ponder over the source From Whence The Turd Of Mystery Flowed, and instead quickly cleaned it up and flushed it away and then...

Another one. This time right in the middle of the kitchen, on the path I'd just walked through no more than 30 seconds earlier, when it was definitely poop free. 

Someone was Stealth Pooping, you guys.

And it didn't end there. After dinner, I found one in the living room, then two more under the dining table, and then Jason found MORE in the kitchen less than 15 minutes after that. All told, by the end of the night, we'd cleaned up about 10 separate poop accidents, all seemingly deposited randomly, one at a goddamned time over the course of several hours. 

THE SUSPECTS:

Lady Ceiba Hummingbird Magillicutty of the Downton Cheezburgers

EVIDENCE FOR: It was raining yesterday, and HOO BOY, is my dog ever the dainty little princess about pooping in the rain, when her delicate haunches might dare brush against wet grass. Never mind that this is a creature who also enjoys rolling around in piles of squirrel shit and eating mulch, WET GRASS IS WHERE SHE DRAWS THE LINE. We've completely barricaded her out of her favorite stealthshit location (the basement playroom), so it's possible she'd been holding it in all day and then driven to desperate, more high-profile pooping.

EVIDENCE AGAINST: Ceiba rarely moves from position during dinner. She is a terrible begger, always crouched next to my chair, letting out the occasional growl of "GIMME SOME CHICKEN, WHORE" or busting out with her patented Waffle Jump. Also, she was unceremoniously sent out in the backyard after the first two turds were discovered, just in case it was her and was still a work in progress. However, the timeframe between Ceiba's return inside and the second wave of poop is unclear, since Stealth Pooper Was Stealthy. However however, I am pretty sure three, maybe four...um, DEPOSITS, max, has been her longstanding personal best. 

VERDICT: Undetermined. 

 

His Distinguished Lordship Maximillian Thunderdome, Esq.

EVIDENCE FOR: As mentioned previously, Max has been having some age-related digestive problems. He gets constipated and panics and basically goes wherever. We switched his diet up to combat the constipation but then that led to vomiting because Mister Princely Pweshus Fwuffypaws' Wittle Tummy Tums Is Sensitive. We're still working on it, but finding random rock-hard turds is not a completely foreign experience.

Mostly though, I just think he's all, "I'm OLD, motherfucker. I've paid my litter box dues. From now on I'm shitting wherever I damn well please. Life is short. Get off my lawn. Etc."

EVIDENCE AGAINST: He was not spotted downstairs at all. He stayed up on our bed all night, as far as I can tell. That's a level of stealth never before witnessed with this cat, who usually likes to announce his tummy disturbances with a lot of meowing, horking, sturm und drang, etc. The last time he was constipated he basically marched into my office mid-squat and yowling, then looked me straight in the eye and shot rainbows out of his ass, Nyan Cat style. 

VERDICT: Undetermined. 

So who pooped on the floor? The world may never know. The kibble-studded puke I stepped in while getting out of bed this morning is likewise mysterious, making this whole thing one big riddle cloaked in a puzzle topped with an enigma and then wrapped in a wad of paper towels. 

SO MUCH NON-STOP CRAZY EXCITEMENT, Vol. 2

Fifth disease. Ezra has it.

Now, if you're anything like me (read: insane), you hear the words "fifth disease" and think HOLY SHIT, DISEASE? THE FIFTH ONE? OUT OF HOW MANY? LIKE, ON A SCALE OF THE TOP TEN MOST TERRIBLE DISEASES YOUR PRESCHOOLER CAN GET? 

Not so much. It basically means: He had a cold, and then got a rash. Oh, and it looks like someone backhanded him across the face a couple times. No biggie. 

***

I recently ordered a retractable clothesline for our backyard, pledging to take my dirty hippitude to a new level: I was gonna hang my baby's poop-rags outside to dry, in the sun, in front of God and my dog and the one neighbor who can see into our yard. 

It started out well. It even made Ye Olde Annoying Instagram!

Aw, how pretty! Points deducted for not using vintage upcycled shabby chic wooden clothespins from Etsy, however.

I was only about halfway through the diapers when I posted that, and once I finished I sat up on the deck and admired my obnoxious hipster old-school handiwork. Look at me! I own a perfectly functional electric dryer but no, I am conserving! I am industrious! Fuck you, modern convenience. The old ways really are better when you think about it when we all got our hands dirty and slowed things down and DAMMIT I would so blog about this but THERE'S TOO MUCH SUN-GLARE ON MY iPAD OUT HERE.

Anyway, that's about the exact second when the tension gave out in the piece of shit line and the whole thing collapsed to the ground, taking two dozen freshly-washed diapers with it.

I tried again, after double-checking the instructions -- I mean, this isn't rocket science, right? Extend, wrap thingie around that other thingie, bathe in smug sense of wholesome green prairie-living pride, and...same thing. WHOOSH. Lawndiapers. 

I cursed a bit, collected all the diapers, and shook off some dirt and leaves. 

Then I went inside and put them all in the dryer.

JUST AS THE LORD INTENDED.

***

I have exactly seven minutes to think of a third thing to talk about here, before I have to get Noah at the bus stop. Why do I need a third thing? I don't know. I JUST DO. Even if I tell myself that two is a prime number, just like three and five, it still feels wrong and incomplete. After five things I always feel compelled to keep going until 10, though, so at least I didn't come up with six things to talk about because then my eyelid would get all twitchy. 

***

Wait a second. I can solve that one. The rest of that six-thinged entry would look like this: 

7) Eeek! Eyelid twitch!

8) Explanation of compulsive need for 10-itemed listicle.

9) Vague, nonsensical rantings re: Dave Letterman.

10) Random pet or baby photo. Hooray!

***

Ceiba says 'sup. 

***

OH DEAR GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE

CLEAN ALL THE THINGS

We have family coming to visit in about...oh, NOW. Family who have never actually been to our house, live and in person, since we moved here almost five years ago. Which means I have spent the last five hours FRANTICALLY trying to clean and organize everything so it actually looks like we've lived here for five years. Instead of...five hours. It's your lucky day, unlabeled box of mystery that we never unpacked because clearly your contents were never missed! You're finally getting unpacked moved to an out-of-the-way spot in the basement!

They have a three-and-a-half year old little girl. So that's four children, all five years old and younger. Here. In the house that I am now questioning cleaning up in the first place. WELCOME TO HELL, NOW WITH 25% MORE PRINCESS CRAP. 

Even the dog got all fancied up for the occasion. By which I mean bathed.

WAT DOIN?

WATER MAKES IMPOSSIBLY TINY LEGS MOAR IMPOSSIBLY TINY

I HAZ NO IDEA WAT JUST HAPPEND

Anyway, I better go take out the last of the trash and re-check that the liquor cabinet is stocked locked. 

PRAY.

THINGS THAT ARE NOT CLOTH DIAPERS

THING #1: LIFE INSURANCE. WAIT WHAT?

In perhaps the ultimate "try to make THIS topic interesting" challenge ever, the folks at Lifehappens.org asked me to contribute a blog entry about life insurance. How did I do?

Don't answer that.

But maybe just go read it? It's about Ceiba? Remember her? She remembers you. Aww, wookit.

THING #2: SHOPPY SHOPPY SHOPPY

And then! In perhaps the ultimate "Amalah can be bought very easily" example, Old Navy sponsored a series of posts over at Babble Voices about going shopping with your children. So I went shopping with my children. Then I wrote about shopping with my children. See how that works? ASTOUNDING, I KNOW. 

My post went up today. And while I don't want to spoil anything for you (since my blog posts tend to be so high drama and suspenseful and all), Ike totally got a onesie with a mummy on it.

Dude, don't move, but I think Mom has finally gone up and around the bend with this stripey clothes business. 

THING #3: BOOBS

Yep. 

THING #4: TORNADOS WITH FRICKING LASER BEAMS ATTACHED TO THEIR HEADS

It's Back To School Night at Ezra's preschool. I hope there are snacks.

There were no snacks at Noah's Back To School Night, though we were given the chance to write a little letter for him to find when he came in the next day. I illustrated our letter with a doodle of an Angry Bird, but was informed by Noah that I'd made the Angry Bird look HAPPY and this bothered him greatly. In fact, my incompetance at drawing properly angry Angry Birds just about ruined his whole morning, because he spent most of Journaling Time attempting to correct my drawing AND THEN HE HAD NO TIME TO JOURNAL, MOM. GOD. 

I asked him what he usually writes in his journal and he said Angry Birds.

Anyway, none of this is making me feel very confident in my artistic ability, or that Ezra's teacher doesn't secretly think I am some kind of batshit crazy person.

THING #5: WAIT FOR IT...

WAIT FOR IT...

*BARF*

*OHCOMEON*

Dog, Thwarted

In which Ceiba is introduced to the new laminate floors in the basement...

MY GOD WOMAN.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE.

WHAAAAAT HAVE YOU DONNNNNNE.

MY VERY BEST FAVORITE CARPETED PEE SPOT! IT WAS RIGHT HERE!

I WILL SEEK OUT RESPONSIBLE PARTY. THEN DESTROY.

AHA! PREPARE TO BE SNIFFED AT FORCEFULLY.

HMM. OKAY. HI. IS MAYBE NOT SUCH A BAD SORT AFTER ALL.

WILL JUST GO UPSTAIRS TO POUT.

WAIT A SECOND. WAT'S THIS?

***

So that's been happening. Randy came and ripped up the hideously befouled carpet and put down laminate and my dog is all THERE IS NO TRACTION OR ABSORBENCY PANIC PANIC BZZZZZTTT OVERLOAD.

Oh, and everybody please say hi to Randy, as he is a long-time blog reader, at least he was before I was all, "Thanks for reading! Now please come fix everything at my house that is broken. Which is a lot of things. Also, BEWARE OF ALL THE PILES."  Then I wandered around in my pajamas and a ponytail all the time, just to completely shatter the illusion that bloggers are cool, together people who are at all worthy of respect or admiration. But then I bought his silence with a couple Chipotle burritos. I think.

The other day I told Noah that no, he couldn't have a snack because it was too close to dinner. He got...fairly angry with me over this, and announced his intention to go ask RANDY for a snack, which he prefaced by pleading with him to please rescue me from Mommy. Who is mean. You need to defeat her! 

I thought this was actually pretty cute until I realized he was requesting my vanquishment from the dude holding the circular saw. 

***

HEH. MISSED A SPOT, BITCH. 

Dogged Determination

I got an email the other day from someone asking me if, by any chance, I was ALSO the author of a different blog. Like, a blog beyond any of the other four frillion sites I contribute to, maintained under someone else's name and life story, all sneaky-seekrit-identity-like. 

I cannot even imagine having the copious amounts of free time one would need to pull off something like that, and also the organizational skills. Like, is this the blog where I'm a boring suburban mother-of-two with a penchant for sucker-punching my readers in the vaginas at the end of every post, like "funny funny Star Wars run-on-sentence funny BAM! EMOTIONAL KAPOW! WHO'S CRYING AT WORK NOW, SUCKAH?" Or is this the blog where I'm a fabulously carefree 20-something in Los Angeles who blogs about all the interesting people she sleeps with and spells everything The British Way, because she thinks it makes her sound fancy? Or is this the blog where I'm a 40-something dude who posts a lot of Stargate fanfic and bitches about all the major dramazzz at this year's ComicCon? I AM SO CONFUSED. I DON'T KNOW HOW SUPERMAN DOES IT.

Anyway. So I get this email and click through to the other blog in question -- you know, just to make sure I WASN'T maintaining a second secret blog identity (maybe I had a stroke? or am taking too much melatonin and sleep-driving to all-night Internet cafes?) -- and it was Hyperbole and a Half. Which. You know, MAJOR COMPLIMENT THERE, for anyone to possibly think Allie and I are the same person, even though we have both been repeatedly harassed by vicious geese, because she is so, so much funnier than me. And probably you. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. 

ANYWAY. OH MY GOD. THE POINT! IS! That thanks to that email I got all sucked up into an Archives Vortex, that thing you do when you just start clicking "previous entry" over and over again and then next thing you know it's two in the morning and you're reading stuff from two years ago that you maybe even actually READ two years ago, but it's like when you turn on the TV and there's that one rerun of Cheers or Seinfeld or the Star Trek One With Tribbles and you've seen it before but it's one of your FAVORITES and you have to watch it anyway. Because it's AWESOME, and maybe only reruns once every couple years! This is your chance! Until TV Land reruns it again next Sunday, or whatever.

Wait. Shit. That wasn't actually my point after all. 

No, my point REALLY is that I read this entry about Allie giving her dog an IQ test, and it made me laugh a ridiculously snarffily amount, and then, because it was -- again -- two in the morning, I started eyeing my own dog, who was sleeping on a piece of paper next to her dog bed, probably because that paper was something important and her underside gets all oily in the summer. 

I totally should give her an IQ test, I thought. And then post the results on my blog, which wouldn't be copycat-like at ALL, because one single solitary person thought our writing styles were possibly kind of similar already! We might even be the same person! YOU CAN'T PLAGIARIZE FROM YOURSELF. FACT. THAT'S HOW WORMHOLES GET STARTED. 

At this point I wisely decided to go to bed. 

Only to wake up a few hours later thinking: DOGGY IQ TEST TIME, BITCHES.

Test One: Problem-Solving Ability

This involves hiding a treat under a can, and seeing how long it takes your dog to knock the can over. 

I thought a full-sized can would be unfair for Ceiba, since that would be like me expecting you to knock over one of those orange road-work barrels with only your nose, but using something like a tomato paste can seemed maybe too easy, so I went with a small plastic cup. I hope this does not invalidate my very scientific results.

 

To her credit, Ceiba definitely seemed to know the treat was under that cup, though she was at a complete loss as to what to DO about this confounding conundrum, other than 1) sniff the cup, and 2) stare at me.

 

I DO NOT UNDERSTAAAAAAAAAAND.

 

ALSO, FUCK THIS SHIT.

After a few minutes, it appeared that Ceiba forgot that the treat was even under the cup in the first place, and kept looking for it elsewhere. Over here? Over here? Now back over there again! Wait, over here! Still nothing over here, let's try back over there again!

I thought, perhaps, that my dog is simply a visual learner, and this test was unfairly skewered against her skills, so I switched to a clear glass. Maybe if she could SEE the treat, she'd be a bit more motivated?

 

NO. SERIOUSLY. FUCK THIS SHIT. AND YOU.

Score: 1 point.

Test Two: Escape Skills
 
This one involves tossing a towel or blanket over your dog and seeing how long it takes them to escape.
  
 

WAAAAAAAT.

She actually did pretty well on this one! It took her about 20 seconds to get free, although she did run directly into the TV cabinet first, but the testing criteria doesn't mention any point deductions for headbutting large obstacles, therefore I am awarding her the full 3 points.

(ROCKY FIST-PUMP DANCE!)

Test Three: Social Learning

Stare at your dog. After three seconds, smile at your dog. They're supposed to see this and come over in search of love and validation and who'sagooddog who'sagooddog and etc. At the very least, there should be some tail-wagging. 

Results: Inconclusive, because Ceiba never made it through the initial three seconds of eye contact before she charged over to me, all FOOD? YOU HAVE SOME FOOD? ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME BECAUSE YOU WANT TO GIVE ME SOME FOOD? I WOULD BE HAPPY TO ACCEPT SOME FOOD OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU SMILING AT ME INSTEAD OF GIVING ME SOME FOOD?

I skipped scoring this one, mostly MY DOG DOESN'T HAVE A TAIL, YOU ASSHOLES. Way to make her feel self-conscious about it.

Test Four: Advanced Problem-Solving

A god-awful hybrid of past failures. Hide the treat under the blanket or towel. See how long it takes dog to find it. 

Results: Ceiba immediately deployed her patented make your beddy digging technique that she uses to, well, make her beddy, before collapsing in an exhausted I've done nothing all day heap. She has also destroyed our couch cushions and multiple decorative throw pillows with it, but BOO-YAH, if it didn't help her find that treat in just over 30 seconds.

 

If you would ever like her assistance in recovering buried dead bodies in the woods, email me. Just make sure they smell like compressed turkey jerky first.

Score: 3 points

(OBNOXIOUS CROWD SOUND EFFECT THAT FRAT GUYS DO THAT ACTUALLY SOUNDS NOTHING LIKE A CROWD)
 
Test Five: Manipulation Skills

This test requires that you build a low table that your dog cannot get her head under. Then you hide a treat underneath it to see if it occurs to her to retrieve it with her paw. This presented a challenge, because 1) my dog's muzzle is the size of a roll of pennies, and 2) my dog has a somewhat long history of getting her head stubbornly stuck in places, so I didn't want to use anything that could possibly crush her puny head like the overripe plum that it is.

I went with a heavy package of Ikea curtains I've been meaning to hang up since, oh, 2006, propped up by couple Sookie Stackhouse novels. 

Since I wasn't sure if that was Ceiba's preferred vampire franchise, I added a magazine with Taylor Lautner on top. 

The results were astounding. It took Ceiba less than three seconds to retrieve the treat. Unfortunately, she went with violent brute force instead of dexterity...

 

IMMA GUNNA EAT U

 

YEAH. I FUCKED THAT SHIT UP RIGHT. *Z SNAPS*
 
Score: Obvious test proctor error. Student should not be penalized. 3 points. 

Test Six: Language Recognition

An easy one: Shout random words at your dog in the same tone you usually use to call her name and see if she knows the difference. If she stays put, call her name. If she comes only to her name, congratulations! Your dog is not a complete moron.

Words Ceiba responded to in a super-excited, running-over-and-jumping and OMGOMGOMG fashion: Refrigerator, movies, tangerine, Sookeh, dumbass.

Words Ceiba ignored completely: HER ACTUAL NAME.

Score: 1 point for enthusiasm; sticking the landing. 

Ceiba's final score was a measly 11 points, which puts her in the Your dog is not too bright, but is most likely very cute range, and thankfully the testing website did not include a caveat or asterisk that added "provided you find seizing hummingbird-eared hamsters on stilts to be 'very cute'" or something. 

Basically, I just spent an entire morning scientifically proving (and documenting!) something that I (and the Internet!) already really knew: My dog is pretty damn dumb.

 

Good thing she coordinates with our floors so nicely. 

Quixotelah

So help me, I'm potty-training the baby. 

I KNOW.

Okay, so far it's technically been more of an exploratory mission to gauge potential interest, but early results appear to be promising, though the paper towel usage readouts have been...lengthy. Also: damp. But still. I think we're on the verge of a breakthrough, because the kid's got heart. He's hungry. He wants it. Eyes on the big boy pants prize.  His coach is just having a hard time with the fancy iPhone app she got to help her with the timing. Also: keeping her business/sports metaphors consistent. 

Obviously, this is not a process I shall be extensively documenting, but here is a photo that I believe demonstrates that yes, I am fully aware of how insane I sound right now:

WAT. IS THIS WEIRD? THERE'S A KID WITH NO PANTS ON OVER THERE, LEAVE ME ALONE.